Stan the Newspaper Man
by Rea
Summary: After she and Clark have their fall out, Chloe asks Stan to help her with the school paper and Stan is, shall we say, less than thrilled.
1. Stan the Newspaper Man

Disclaimer: Don't own Smallville. That's clear by now. :)  
  
Author's note: So, it turns out that Stan's manic depression isn't without reason. I'd tell you more but that would give away some of the plot. And it's not often I end up writing something with one of those so I figured I ought to use the opportunity and create some suspense. Or something like that.   
  
Stan: Reloaded.  
  
Chapter 1: Stan the Newspaper man  
  
"No." I stared at Chloe Sullivan over the school store booth. She didn't seem to have gotten it the first time so I repeated it again. "No." English must not have been her first language because she still didn't leave. In fact, she leaned in closer to me. "Come on, Stan. I really need someone to help with the newspaper. Since Clark quit, Pete and I can't get it all done."  
  
I sighed and pushed the color coded files closer to her hoping she'd get the hint and leave. I'm not fond of being ambushed like that with offers of new jobs. My dad was in Vietnam and, trust me, Tet was kinder. Chloe continued babbling and I stared at her wishing for the third time she'd go away.   
  
"So I figured that since you only have the school store to look after you could easily help."   
  
"Yeah, that's it, Chloe. Only the school store," I bitterly threw back at her. "It only takes five minutes of my time and it's not like I'm the only person running it or anything. I don't even matter. My answer's no. So leave. Now."   
  
Chloe looked desperate and I couldn't help but feel pleased I was at least partially the cause of it. "Okay, I didn't mean it like that."  
  
"Yes you did."  
  
"No I didn't."  
  
I gave her a look mixed with loathing and insult. "Don't lie. I'm not so stupid that I can't recognize a lie."  
  
She threw up her hands. "Alright! Fine! I meant it! But what I meant was two people can handle the school store a lot easier than the paper."  
  
I wasn't exactly sure what she meant. "Tw-oo?" I prounounced as though I had never heard the word before.   
  
"Yes, two." She gave in with a resigned sigh. "If you help with the paper, I'll help with the school store." I felt my lips curl into a pleased smile. "Alright. Deal. Now get your folders and go."  
  
She did, almost as though she couldn't wait to get away from there. She probably couldn't. That's how it is with most people anyway. God, I hate them. At the last minute, she turned and called over her shoulder, "Meet me at the Torch office after 7th period!" I suppressed a shudder and rang up a few permanent markers for Chad.  
  
***********************************************************************  
  
Chloe shoved some piles of paper off a spare desk. "This will be your desk," she said with what was supposed to be a flourish.  
  
I stared at it blankly then looked up at Chloe. "It's covered with paper."  
  
"I know. We've kind of been using it as a storage area since Clark left." She seemed oddly embarrressed by this admission. I sat down at the dest uncomfortably. "I'm not surprised he did," I said.  
  
She frowned. "Why do you say that?"  
  
"People always do that when you need them the most. That's how life is. God, don't talk to me about life!"  
  
"Um...okay, I won't," she gave me a strange look and I thought about glaring at her, but there was no point. It would accomplish nothing. I shoved a pile of papers onto the floor and looked up at her. "What menial activity do you have for me to do?"  
  
She seemd taken aback by this comment too. "Um, well, you'll help with the layout, printing, pester the rest of our staff to turn in their articles and cover the sports column."  
  
What? Sports? Was this girl on crack? No, she would never do something so interesting. "I don't do sports," I said firmly, intending to put an end to the matter.  
  
"So? That wouldn't make you the first sports writer we've had who doesn't cover sports."  
  
"I don't write them either."  
  
She looked at me exhasperated and opened her mouth to say something but Pete came in at that moment. "Hey, Chloe! How's the search for a replacement for Cla--" He saw me and stopped dead in his tracks. I don't blame him. I would have done the same. "Hello, Stan," he said slowly, his voice having lost all semblance of friendship and happiness. "What brings you here?"  
  
Chloe broke in before I could answer. "He volunteered to write the sports column."  
  
Pete tried to cover up his unpleasant reaction and failed miserably. "Oh, that's...great."  
  
"No, it's not," I replied dully. "Unless, of course, by great you mean the worst news since the Y2K turned out not to be a problem," I said bitterly.  
  
"Ummm...Chloe, can I talk to you for a second in the hall?" Pete backed away from me like everything within a two foot radius of me was doomed.  
  
"Sure. We'll be back," she told me.  
  
"Of course you will," I said. I always have the worst kind of luck.  
  
Chloe tried to shut the door behind her but some moron had kicked in the frame and it bounced back open. None of them noticed. So I got to hear every word.  
  
"Chloe," Pete began, "I know you're desperate for a replacement sports writer but you can't hire him!"  
  
"Why not? The only thing I had to do to get him to agree to it was volunteer to help with the school store. Compared to the other offers, it'll be a cakewalk." I never thought anyone besides me could refer to the school store with such loathing and, for a moment, I felt a vague sense of companionship with her. Then Pete started talking and killed it.  
  
"I know but it's not as easy as it sounds. Trust me! I interviewed him last year." 'If you can call it that,' I thought. "Stan is a walking depression machine! He's got a chemical imbalance bigger than the national deficit." Actually it's bigger but no nevermind.  
  
"Oh, come on," Chloe said. "He can't be that bad. And if he is a little unhappy, who could blame him? He runs the school store, for god's sake." All of my Chloe love went out the window right then. I was debating whether it had actually had time to enter when the two returned.  
  
"Okay, all you'll need to do for the sports column is go to a few football games, basketball games, whatever, watch what happens and then write the story. Maybe once in a while you could interview the coach or some players to give it a more human feel." She was looking entirely too happy about this.  
  
"A human feel?" I repeated.  
  
"Yes, make it seem more...approachable."   
  
I don't think I've ever seen anything to show that sports is 'approachable.' Usually it strikes me as quite the opposite. But whatever. I stared at her. "You. Want me. To make the...sports column. Approachable," I said slowly.  
  
She didn't seem to understand what the issue was with this. I shuddered painfully and Chloe looked concerned. "Are you okay?"  
  
I gave her a look of disdain. "You want me to write an approachable sports column and ask me if I'm okay? I never thought the people I'd deal with at the paper could be more idiotic than the school store."  
  
Chloe tried not to notice the obvious insult, which only sealed my conviction that she must be dumb. "Well, I'll just...leave you to settle in, okay?" She backed away from me and into Pete and the two of them left.   
  
******************************************************************  
  
I set the tape recorder on the table in front of me and pressed record. I stared at the coach who was sitting across from me fiddling with the whistle around his neck. The tape recorded about thirty seconds of silece and still no one spoke. "So," I said finally. 'Put them at ease,' Chloe had told me. Fat chance. This guy made hedgehogs look relaxed. "You're the new sports coach."  
  
He looked relieved. "Yes, I am--" I cut him off.  
  
"Good." I paused. "Did you hear about our last coach?"  
  
Uncertainty crossed his face and made a stopover. "Um. Yes, actually I did."  
  
"Pretty unpleasant, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, who would have thought such a great coach would turn out to be so disturbed?"  
  
I ignored his comemnt. "Disappointing if you asked me."  
  
The new coach looked even more confused. "Why do you say that?"  
  
"Being cooked alive was too good for him."  
  
Coach Aktinson smiled as though he were talking to a very small child who thought there was a monster under his bed. "Now I didn't hear that."  
  
"I didn't ask you what you heard," I said sharply.  
  
"Okay!" The coach leaned back in his chair holding his hands out in a sign of complacency. I hate complacency. I let the silence drag on for a bit. "What's your plan for the next couple of games?"  
  
The coach laughed a very fake laugh. "Oh, I can't tell you that, you might give it to our opponents." His voice was filled with the worst sort of saccharine cheerfulness that made my teeth hurt just hearing it. I eyed him with distaste. "If you don't have a game plan, you can tell me that too," I said finally.  
  
"Oh, we've got a game plan--"  
  
"Whatever." I moved onto the next question. "How do you plan to deal with a bunch of half brained jocks who have difficulty passing even the most rudimentary math tests?"  
  
Coach Atkinson didn't seem like the sharpest tool in the shed either. He frowned at the question as though the thought had never occured to him before. "Um. I'm not sure what you mean by stupid..."  
  
"You wouldn't be. Stupid. Half-witted. Incapable of buttoning up their own pants. Stupid."  
  
He stared at me. "Say, don't you want to know anything about the positions people are playing or who we consider to be our most valuable players."  
  
I shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. Not if you think of it like I do. They'll all die anyway. But if you need to hear your own voice, I'll sit here and pretend I'm interested."  
  
He did. "Well, we've been hit pretty hard lately, especially since Eric--" I snorted. "Excuse me?" The coach asked.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"No, I want to know what it was I said that made you snort." He was looking kind of pissed by then.  
  
I didn't say anything but coachie said, "I believe this interview is over." He stood up to make it clear I could leave.  
  
I did. "I'd tell you to have a nice day," I said on my way out, "but you won't anyway."  
  
**************************************************************************  
  
Chloe approached my desk holding my article. She looked irritated but I'm just thinking she stands a little too close to the press and has gotten a few too many of those fumes, if you know what I mean. "Stan, I'm really glad you wrote your article and turned it in on time and all." No she wasn't. "But I can't use this."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Well," she searched her mind for a good way to say this that wouldn't offend me. People always do that and I don't know why they bother. It always offends me. "It's not exactly what I was looking for."  
  
I glared at her. "What, a little too human?"  
  
She hesitated. "No, that's not the problem." She paused again then went on. "It's just, well, you called Coach Atkinson a 'dim-witted hedgehog-looking moron whose revolutionary new game plan included the brillant idea of running,'" she quoted. "I can't publish that. It's libel!"  
  
"No it's not. It's true."  
  
"He might not see it like that."  
  
I shrugged. "Well, excuse me for breathing."  
  
She backed up. "Stan, I don't want you to take this the wrong way but--."  
  
"Then tell me which way to take it and I'll be sure to do so," I said bitterly.  
  
"Fine! You know what? It's FINE!" She threw the article across the room but it failed to move with any sort of force and just fluttered to the ground.  
  
"That was ridiculous," I said plainly.  
  
"RIDICULOUS?!" she screamed. "You know what's ridiculous? This situation is ridiculous! I--I--" Chloe ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. It bounced back with an angry thud. I sat there in the following silence for a moment then noticed a new stack of papers on my desk and knocked them to the floor. 


	2. I like my coffee Stan free

Chapter 2: I like my coffee Stan-free  
  
Lana set the cup of coffee down by Chloe, who was typing angrily on her laptop. "Here's your coffee, Chloe. Black just like you wanted it."  
  
"Bite me, Lana," Chloe said without looking up. Lana stared at her in confusion. "Is something wrong Chloe?"  
  
"No, it's all just peachy keen. Now go away."  
  
"Okay..." Lana retreated back to the counter and smiled in relief as she saw Clark come in with Pete in tow. "Hi," she said pleasantly. "Is something wrong with Chloe, Clark?"   
  
Clark looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. "Not that I know of, why?"  
  
"She just seems--"  
  
"Bitter?" Pete filled in. "Vitriolic? Like a ball of black twine wrapped around someone's neck and choking him?"  
  
Lana nodded. "I think something's bothering her."  
  
"Oh, not something. Someone."  
  
Clark gave Pete a look. "What do you mean?"  
  
"She got Stan, aka, Dr. Depression to fill in for you at the Torch."  
  
"Stan?" Clark's expression clouded over as he struggled to remember who that was.  
  
"You know him. Squirrly looking kid, sits next to Chad in English. Works at the school store. I interviewed him."  
  
Recognition dawned. "Oh! Him!"  
  
"Yes, him. I told Chloe not to do it but she didn't listen," Pete explained as they headed towards Chloe.  
  
"Oh, come on, Pete. He can't be that bad," Clark said.  
  
"No, he's worse," Chloe said bitterly.  
  
"Hi, Chloe, how's it going?" he asked her, trying to sound happy.  
  
"Go to hell, Clark," Chloe responded without missing a beat. "I'm in no mood for your bowl full of cheeriness today."  
  
Clark glanced at Pete, who gave him a pitying look but offered no help. He sat down at the table. "I hear you've gotten Stan of School Store Fame to help at the Torch."  
  
"Yeah, no thanks to you."  
  
"So...is it going well?"  
  
Pete and Chloe broke into gails of bitter laughter. Clark suddenly felt like there was some sort of private joke he wasn't privy to between the two of them. "Is that a no?" he guessed.  
  
Chloe stopped laughing and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Thanks, Clark, I can always rely on you for some comic relief."  
  
Clark wasn't sure if she was joking or really meant it so he said, "I wasn't joking."  
  
Chloe's smile disappered. "Oh." A look of despair covered her face. "He's hooorible. Stan. I can't stand him. Anytime I'm in the same room with him, I feel like--."  
  
"All the happiness is being sucked out of you," Pete finished.  
  
Chloe looked at him in appreciation. "You know."  
  
"Of course I know! I warned you about him. When I finished interviewing him last year I wanted to pop some advil."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with that," Clark said.  
  
"By some, I mean a family sized bottle," Pete informed him.  
  
"And by advil, he means anti-depressant," Chloe added.  
  
Clark simply could not believe this. "How can you guys talk about him like that? You don't even know him."  
  
"I don't want to know him," Chloe said vehemently.  
  
"Chloe, let me handle this," Pete said, ever the diplomat. "If you think we are being unfair towards Stan in anyway, then by all means, Clark, go and talk to him."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yes, you," Chloe responded. "I can't wait to see you after half an hour with him." She got up and started to pack her stuff.  
  
"Wait, where're you going?" Clark asked.  
  
"To help Stan," she said sweetly, "with the school store."  
  
Pete went with her and Clark was left alone with his dark feelings of foreboding and Lana trying to catch his attention from the counter.  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
Another day, another pair of pens and packet of paper sold. I guess I should add the whole school paper thing to the list but it's not worth it. That addition is hardly worth bragging of. The only good thing about it (if it can be called good) is that it keeps me away from home all that much longer.  
  
You may ask: But Stan, why don't you want to be at home? And I'll just call you a blithering idiot who hasn't been paying attention to a single word I've said.  
  
I hate being home. It's dark, dirty, and, worst of all, my father's there. My father is officially the most embittered Vietnam Vet in the world. He lost a leg outside of Danang and even though he got an artificial one, he still like's to bitch about it. As for my mom, she stuck it out as long as she could but got the hell out of here when I was four. I don't blame her for leaving though I'm not at all happy about the fact she left me with the bastard.  
  
As I put the key in the lock, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to tell Chloe off. Only it wasn't Chloe.  
  
"Hi, Stan," Clark Kent said cheerfully. I hate him.  
  
I gritted my teeth. "Why, hello, Reason-I'm-Enslaved-at-the-Torch."  
  
If he caught that he didn't show it. "Say, are you doing anything tonight?" he asked, full of friendliness.  
  
"Other than delving down to a new depth of despair, no. Why do you ask?"  
  
Clark wasn't phased. "Good, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out or something."  
  
I stared at him and repeated what he had just said. "You. Want to. Hang out. With me?" I drew it out as slowly as possible.  
  
"Yes."  
  
I stared at him some more, hoping to ward him off. "Why?"  
  
It looked as though Clark could not fathom why I was asking why anyone would want to hang out with me. You know, cause I'm such a get at 'em guy. "Why not? I'm sure this isn't the first time someone's wanted to hang out with you."  
  
My stare hardened into a glare. "No, Kent. It's the ONLY time."  
  
Clark looked like he couldn't believe this either, so I went on to assure him it was true. "Trust me. I can hardly stand to hang out with myself. If I could I would separate myself from me."  
  
Clark didn't seem any closer to leaving than he'd been when I started. "Look," he said. "Maybe you're mad at me and I can't really understand why because Chloe's the one who hired you, not me. Yeah, I know I quit but still...you didn't have to agree to it."  
  
"You just don't get it do you?" I said, lowering my voice so he'd have to strain to hear it. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to work. "I. Don't. Care. It does not matter to me one bit what you say. All I want is to go inside and for you to go away."  
  
Clark finally seemed to get it but he looked after me with a concerned look on his face as I opened the door, went inside and slammed it shut. My door didn't bounce back open when I shut it either.  
  
******************************************************************************  
  
"'A Guide to Manic Depressants'"; Lex Luther read aloud, looking at the book Clark held in his hands. "Every week it's something new, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," Clark said as casually as possible. "I'm trying to work my way through every personal crisis before I turn 21. It's not really as easy as it looks."  
  
Lex laughed and sat down across the table from Clark. "It doesn't sound like it would be. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you don't sound like the type to become manically depressed." Lana arrived at that moment, toting Lex's cappuccino and they paused the conversation until she went away.  
  
"Nah, I guess not," Clark finally said, setting the book down. "I'd say it was for a friend but that would be a lie: the person I'm talking about isn't friendly enough to have friends."  
  
"Then why bother?" Lex asked, taking a sip and giving Clark a penetrating look.  
  
"Well, Chloe went and hired him to write the sports column at the Torch and after spending some time with him she turned into Manically Depressed Chloe. Pete swears it was the same way when he interviewed him last year."  
  
"So you're reading this book to find out if there's anyway to explain that or, better yet, anyway to change that."  
  
"Exactly." Clark looked at Lex. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know any really good professional psychologists I could refer him to, would you?"  
  
Lex smiled sweetly. "I don't think so. My family doesn't really strike you as the crazy kind, does it?"  
  
Clark couldn't figure out if Lex was joking or not so he said nothing and prayed Lex would change the topic. Lex complied. "By the way, what's his name?"  
  
"Oh...his name's Stan. Stan Gibson."  
  
Lex wrinkeled his forehead. "Gibson? Are you sure?"  
  
"Yeah, why?"  
  
"I think his dad used to work at the LuthorCorp. I mean, until his wife left him after the meteor shower. They had a really big blow out in the plant the day I visited after my release from the hospital."  
  
Clark frowned. "You don't happen to remember if he was working on any special projects at the time, do you?"  
  
"Nah. I was nine. I didn't give a crap." Clark nodded absently.  
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
Lionel Luthor sprung through the door to the Torch office. "Miss Sullivan, if we could discuss the final points of our agreement..." he trailed off when he saw Stan sitting in a dark corner of the office. "You're not Miss Sullivan."  
  
"No, I'm not," Stan agreed. "Who the hell are you?"  
  
Lionel ignored the question. "I don't recall ever seeing you here at the Torch."  
  
"No," Stan agreed again.  
  
"Are you new here?"  
  
The boy glared at him. "Why do you want to know? Does it matter?"  
  
Lionel shrugged. "It might. I merely enjoy taking an interest in our community's youth."  
  
"Ah. Yes. The dim light of the future," Stan replied blandly.  
  
Lionel began to feel the chirpy-ness he always felt when propagating a new scam drift away. "I wouldn't call it that," he said frowning at the young man.  
  
"No, you're right. It's not exactly a light is it? More like an unpleasant oder. Rather similar to a rotting corpse, I suppose."  
  
Lionel swallowed and decided to try to change the subject. He wasn't sure what subject they were on but he wanted to change it anyway. "Beautiful imagery," he said smoothly, "I imagine Miss Sullivan has you writing the poetry column?"  
  
"No," the boy's voice cut through Lionel's words like a knife through warm butter only scratchier. "I'm writing the sports column."  
  
"Ah." Lionel felt more uncomfortable with every passing second. He wondered where Chloe was. "A wise choice on her part, I'm sure."  
  
"No," Stan replied with the essence of a man commenting on the weather. "It wasn't." He crummpled a sheet of paper up and threw it at the trash can, missed, and for a moment, Lionel thought he was going to get up and put it in the trash can but his body rose a bit, then collapsed further back into the chair, all his motions giving off an aura of overwhelming dispair. Lionel suddenly felt very wary of any more conversation with this boy. He turned to leave but as he reached the door, a sudden thought occured to him. "What's your name, young man?"  
  
Stan glared at Lionel. "Why do you care? It doesn't matter. Nothing does." He started humming one of the latest pop songs but made it sound like a funeral march.  
  
It clicked in Lionel's mind. "It's Gibson, isn't it?" The boy frowned deeply and continued humming and Lionel felt more despair wash over him. "That would be another botched Luthercorp project," he muttered as he left. 


	3. The Wrath of Stan

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait people, but I've got this chapter written and the next one too so chapter 4 shouldn't be too long in coming, it just depends on how long it takes me to type it up :) Oh, and I don't own "Jump in the Line" by Harry Belafonte. But it is a fun song.   
  
Chapter 3: The Wrath of Stan  
  
Amy Witherspoon leaned in closer to her computer screen, where she was typing up her overdo article for the school paper. She knew Chloe was impatient for it but tomorrow was the soonest she was going to get it. She hummed along with the radio:   
  
My girl's name is Senora  
  
I tell you friends, I adore her  
  
And when she dances, oh brother!  
  
She's a hurricane in all kinds of weather  
  
She jumped Slightly in her chair, startled by a noise behind her and glanced around. Her face relaxed into a kind of a smile when she saw it was only Stan Gibson standing in the doorway. "Dang it, Stan, you scared me." He didn't reply and Amy paused a bit before turning around to face her computer again. "I guess I'll just get back to work on my article then, if you don't want anything..." she trailed off or would have had Stan not suddenly broken in.  
  
"'If I don't want anything'," he repeated mockingly. "Since when has this been about what I want?" Amy struggled to come up with a response but Stan again interrupted her. "No, don't respond. That was rhetorical, meaning don't answer because no answer exists." Amy could have sworn that at that moment the CD she had on, playing "Jump in the Line", slowed down a bit and she felt a weariness cover her.  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) OK, I believe you!  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) OK, I believe you!  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) OK, I believe you!  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) Whoa!  
  
"I don't want to work for the paper," Stan continued bitterly. "I never asked for the school store. And now look at me: Chloe Sullivan is using me to get people," he said 'people' with a tone of contempt, "like you to turn their articles in on time. As though I didn't have anything better to do."  
  
Amy hesitated and finally turned around in her chair and spoke when it became clear Stan wasn't going to say anything further. "You can go if you want, Stan. I'll have the article in by tomorrow, I promise. You don'thave to wait around here for it, you know." Stan came closer and slumped lifelessly against the wall. "Oh, yes. Why don't I just go? No one wants Stan around-"  
  
"No, that's not it, I just thought if you didn't want to be here-"  
  
"As though what I wanted had anything to do with it. You see my left leg here?" he asked.  
  
"Umm...yes." Amy wasn't entirely sure what he wanted from her.  
  
"Well, it hurts. It's almost like someone is sawing through the skin layer by layer with a file and that, any day now, they're going to get down to the muscle and then the bone and start sawing through that, too, and then it hurts almost like they have already." Amy winced as she felt the phantom pain throb in her own leg. "And you know what it feels like the rest of the time?" She shook her head and Stan have her a biting smirk. "It's numb. Completely numb."  
  
"Maybe you should go to the doctor about that," she suggested half heartedly but that was the wrong thing to say.  
  
"Don't you think I have?" His voice rose and broke on the last syllable. "They don't do anything. They just say it's fine but it's not." He sounded like he was going to cry.  
  
"Stan, it's not that bad I'm sure," she said, soothingly, though a part of her was beginning to wonder why she bothered.  
  
"No, it's worse." He paused, letting the music play alone for a moment.  
  
You can talk about Cha Cha  
  
Tango, Waltz, or de Rumba  
  
Senora's dance has more title  
  
You jump in the saddle  
  
Hold on to de bridle!  
  
He leaned over towards her, rather closer than she'd liked, and said, "I'm not getting you down at all am I?" His voice was quiet and smooth but somehow scratchy.  
  
She shook her head, tears smarting in her eyes. "No, I'm fine," she managed right before thy started rolling. "It's just---I have so much to do! I am so stressed right now I don't know how I'm going to get everything done. I'm only writing this article as a personal favor for Chloe but now-" Tears were cascading down her cheeks by now, making it nearly impossible for her to talk.  
  
"You thought you would help her out, didn't you?" Stan asked in the same soft voice. "But you didn't, did you?" She shook her head. "That's how it usualy works. Helping others only increases that feeling of uselessness and futility."  
  
"But-but, you're helping Chloe with the paper!" she sputtered.  
  
He smiled. "Yes. Of course. Heelping." Stan drew the word out. "I'm not helping. I know I'm not. The only person who intended for me to help was Chloe. I'm sure she's learning from that mistake."   
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) OK, I believe you!  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) Rock your body, child!  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) Somebody, help me!  
  
(Jump in de line, rock your body in time) Whoa!  
  
Stan shrugged his shoulders in such a way to imply that the weight of the world lay upon his shoulders and there was nothing he, nor anyone else, could do about it. "I suppose I'll go now to contemplate the universe and how very little importance I have in comparison to its size." He turned and lumped out the door, leaving Amy sitting there sideways in her chair, her face covered in tears. Suddenly, a wail of unremitting despair burst out of her and she banged her head down onto the keyboard as hard as she could, time after time: WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! Then finally, she lay there still and the only sound left in the room was Harry Belafonte's voice singing.  
  
Shake, shake, shake, Senora, shake your body line  
  
Shake, shake, shake, Senora, shake it all the time (Whoa)  
  
Work, work, work, Senora, work your body line (Yep)  
  
Work, work, work, Senora, work it all the time 


	4. Stan Say What?

Chapter 4  
  
Pete walked into the Torch office carefully, his head first and he glanced around, smiled in relief when he saw it was only Clark and then entered, still looking around. "He's not here," Clark provided helpfully.  
  
"Thank god. And despite my relief it was you and not the Demon of Depression, you're using my computer and Chloe'll have a fit if she sees you on it."  
  
Clark raised his eyebrows at this. "I didn't think Chloe was in a fit-throwing mood."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure she's recovered from her latest Stan encounter. I did. I think." Pete looked slightly uncertain at this. "So, what're you researching?"  
  
"The usual: any existance of possible Luthorcorp projects involving the use of Kryptonite, this time to affect the mood."  
  
Now it was Pete's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You're not saying that Stan's moodiness is Kryptonite induced, are you?"  
  
Clark shrugged. "I haven't decided yet but I can't rule it out. Remembering all the other crazy things this stuff caused..."  
  
"It doesn't seem all that far fetched," Pete concluded and sat down. "Of course. So what's your theory?"  
  
"I have two, actually. One is that Stan's father was infected with Kryptonite while working for Luthercorp and then passed it on to Stan at home, who then got it and the other is that the meteor srike did it when--"  
  
"He was in a really bad mood and caused the bad mood to stick," Chloe said from the door.  
  
"Chloe," Clark said in surprise. Had she heard? "I didn't see you there."  
  
"I just got here and trust me, I've been doing the same research you have."  
  
Clark nodded, relieved she hadn't seemed to hear him telling Pete about the Kryptonite. "And what did you decide?"  
  
"Well, firstly, I found out he was caught in the meteor strike and was released from the hospital the next day. Secondly, I think not only is he in a permanantly bad mood but he is also able to spread this bad mood to others when he comes in contact with them."  
  
"Hmm...that would explain the low sales in the school store," Pete said thoughtfully.  
  
Chloe nodded. "And also why anyone who comes near him ends up in a bad mood. Did you visit him like we told you to, Clark?"  
  
Clark hesitated. The real answer was yes b ut if he said that, he'd also haveto say he hadn't fel depressed afterwards. Confused, yes, concerned, certainly. But depressed? No, not as such. "Yes," he said slowly, "I visited him but I can't say I spent 30 minutes there either."  
  
Chloe grinned. "I told you he was hardcore." Clark felt a rush of relief and Pete smiled.  
  
"The question now is," Clark went on, "what to do now that we know the why?"  
  
Chloe and Pete were silent. "We could just leave him alone," Pete suggested timidly. "I mean, it's not like he's bothered anyone or anything. As long as he's left alone, he'll just wallow in his own misery."  
  
Clark frowned. "That doesn't sound kind. Besides, he's now writing articles for the paper. I think that affects people.   
  
Chloe looked uncomfortable. "Look, it's not like I want him working at the Torch but I needed someone to and since you quit..."  
  
"You thought you didn't have any choice," Clark finished for her and she nodded. "And now I'm even more shorthanded than before, here, look at this." She pulled out a copy of the Smallville Ledger and handed it to Clark and Pete. Clark peered at it curiously. "Remember Amy Witherspoon?" Chloe asked him and he saw the headline: SMALLVILLE TEEN FOUND DEAD AT COMPUTER   
  
"Whoa, that's messed up," Pete said, "I saw her yesterday and she looked fine. People don't just drop dead like that." He noticed the looks on Clark and Chloe's faces and amended, "Okay, so maybe in Smallville they do but still....it doesn't say what she died of."  
  
"I'm calling it SDS," Chloe told him.  
  
"Sudden death syndrome?" Clark guessed.  
  
"No, sudden depression syndrome," Chloe corrected, pulling another sheet of paper out of her bag. "Look at this. I printed it out of her computer this morning before school. It's what she was working on before she died." Pete took it.  
  
"Ah, an article for the paper, now that's understandable," he said smiling. Chloe glared at him. "That's not it. See the last line here? It starts out 'The end of year bar-b-que was expected...' then breaks off into all sorts of random letters."  
  
Clark nodded, examening it. "They're 'xvcmnfd kjklt ,m dmg,aljd.' Then it just keeps on repeating."  
  
"Yeah, see?" They didn't and Chloe blew out a burst of air in frustration. "She didn't just DIE, guys!" The two of them stared at her like her hair was made out thousands of tiny Rosy O'Donnells shouting at them. She sighed. "Can't you see what this means? She didn't drop dead, she was DESPAIRED to death."  
  
A look of fear crossed Pete's face. "You mean Stan? No way, man, that can't be. Maybe she seized and her hands just started typing random letters on the--"  
  
"No." Chloe stopped him mid-thread spinning. "These are the exact keys that are hit when a person bangs her head against the keyboard. Judging from the number of repititions, she did it around 4 times before coming to a rest."  
  
"And you know this how?" Clark asked skeptically. She gave him a tired look. "Long years of practice," Chloe explained patiently. "And that's not the only sign that points to Stan. I asked him to stop by Amy's last night and make sure she was still planning on turning that article into me if it wasn't that much of a bother."  
  
"And he went?"  
  
"Yep, after about five minutes of complaining how everyone always asked him if it wasn't a bother but it always was and how he was being used only as a gopher and no one cares, misery, despair, the pointlessness of it all. You know the drill." They did.  
  
Pete collapsed in his chair. "I guess that cancels out my idea of leaving him alone as a harmless point of despair. He's killed someone. We can't just let him get away with that."  
  
"You're right. We can't." Clark agreed and the three of them exchanged significant looks. 


	5. The Stan in you

Author's Note: Sorry about the long break guys…in that period I've   
  
moved back home, readjusted to American life and tried to get my life   
  
in some sort of order…plus I couldn't really think of a good way to   
  
conclude the story but I've thought of one now. But don't worry! This   
  
isn't the end…there's still the epilogue!  
  
Pete walked up to Stan's house, trying to act calm. Really, he didn't   
  
feel that way at all. Here he was, being sent off to the jaws of doom   
  
by his best friend. "I don't see why you can't do this, Clark," Pete   
  
hissed out the side of his mouth. "Sorry, but I told you. I have to be   
  
over here or else he might get suspicious," Clark replied from his   
  
hiding place in the bushes. Pete rolled his eyes. Who cared? Clark   
  
wasn't afftected by Depression Boy. It wouldn't matter if they did it   
  
the other way around 'but noooo, I'm always the one who gets to head   
  
off the various freaks of the week. I'm always the one who gets hurt   
  
before Clark rushes in to save the day,' Pete thought bitterly as he   
  
neared the door of the run-down old shack. 'Uh oh.' Pete paused as he   
  
realized what was happening to him. Stan must be around here, nearby.   
  
He hesitated for a second and then knocked on the door. It sprung open   
  
almost as though someone had been expecting him.  
  
"Whadya want?" A dirty man with a crutch in one hand and long   
  
scraggly hair asked Pete and Pete felt himself flinch backwards   
  
involuntarily. "Er, I wanted to see Stan," he said, trying dearly not   
  
to loath the person in front of him. "Whaddya mean you wanna see Stan?   
  
Don't nobody want to see Stan. Ya think I'll just let you come in here   
  
and say you wanna see Stan and you can see him? Hah!" Spittle flew out   
  
of the man's mouth at this and landed on Pete's cheek. He wiped it off   
  
grimly. He really hadn't expected anything different. "Like they'd a   
  
let you do that in Danang. Nossir. In Danang, you didn't just parade in   
  
here like a belladonna and expect to see who you wanted to see. You had   
  
the Cong alround them. Not that it matters. Don't matter to no one no   
  
more. I lost my leg in Danang because of one of those fools. And where   
  
was my parade, huh? Where was my parade?" The man leaned in so close to   
  
Pete that he was having trouble not recoiling. The stinch was unbarable   
  
and Pete's nose was rapidly in danger of coming in contact with his. "I   
  
just want to see Stan!" Pete repeated and, like an angel heralding its   
  
call, Stan appeared behind the door clutching a heavy history book and   
  
slammed into the back of the creepy old man's head, who then to the   
  
ground with a dissatisfying thump. Stan stared at the body blandly,   
  
then looked at Pete with the same expression. "Oh." He said lamely.   
  
"It's you." Pete stared at Stan wide-eyed. "Dude, you just killed your   
  
father," he said, disbelieving. Stan merely shrugged. "Yeah, I know.   
  
It's the most use my history book has been all year." He kicked the   
  
cadaver in the side lazily and Pete was amazed to find that he didn't   
  
feel quite as despaired as he usually did. "So, um, I came to find   
  
out…" Pete searched around for a worthy excuse. "Um, if you wanted to   
  
help with layout tomorrow." Stan merely stared at Pete and Pete felt a   
  
rush of despair spring at him. 'Uh oh,' Pete thought. 'Here it comes.'   
  
"My father just died. Do you think I want to help with layout?" "Well,   
  
you didn't seem too terribly put off by it. I mean, you killed him   
  
yourself."   
  
"That doesn't mean I don't care!" Stan shouted. "Everyone just thinks I   
  
don't care! Everyone! No one cares about Stan though! Who cares what he   
  
thinks, huh? No one?" Pete felt himself start to crumple under the   
  
barrage of negative thoughts coming at him. "I—can't—" he stammard but   
  
at that moment, Clark burst out of the bushes and tackled Stan in such   
  
a way that would have made the new football coach wonder exactly why   
  
Clark wasn't on the football team. Stan hit the ground with a thud and   
  
Clark sat up on top of him, pinning him down.  
  
"It figures," Stan said simply.  
  
"What figures?" Clark asked.  
  
"That you would do this. It's just like you."  
  
"Stan, you hardly even know me."  
  
"I know. But it's just like you and everyone else on this world. Let's   
  
all go pick on Stan and beat him up! He's an easy target."  
  
From his place by the shack's door, Pete called out, "Trust me, Stan,   
  
you are NO easy target."  
  
Clark nodded. "Why are you the way you are, Stan? Why do you depress   
  
everyone you meet?"  
  
Stan shrugged. "Does it matter?"  
  
"Yes, it does. You killed someone Stan."  
  
"She killed herself. I just happened to be the one to point out that   
  
she had nothing to live for. It's not my fault she agreed with me."  
  
Clark suddenly found his positioning on top of Stan very uncomfortable   
  
and rolled off to sit next to him. "Yes it is. You radiate depression.   
  
Everyone who's around you can't help but become depressed. Why?"  
  
"Is it the meteor rock?" Pete called from a distance.  
  
Stan shrugged. "Hell if I know. I hardly remember it. Who would want   
  
to? Ugly thing."  
  
"Your dad worked at Luthorcorp," Clark suggested, hoping this would get   
  
some reaction out of him, but Stan merely shrugged. "That would depress   
  
anyone."  
  
Clark sat there for a moment at a loss for words. He was simply   
  
unreachable. Then again, he realized, most of these meteor freaks he   
  
dealt with were. Finally Stan spoke. "I'll tell you something." His   
  
voice was quiet as a whisper but it resonated in the air. "I'm not any   
  
more different than you or Pete or anyone else in this world is. You   
  
all hate it. You all get pissed and depressed sometimes. If sometimes   
  
things seem pretty well, it's merely because you haven't been looking   
  
for what's wrong. You're choosing to ignore it. Ever since the meteor   
  
shower came down, I haven't been able to ignore it. It's always there.   
  
But I have noticed," his voice dropped down another decibel. "That ever   
  
since those tests were done on me, I've been able to make others see it   
  
just like I have. Now they all know the truth."  
  
Clark felt a horrible knot form in his stomach. "What do you mean? What   
  
truth?"  
  
"That they're all like me. Inside everyone, there's that little piece   
  
of them that wants to hate everything and see the disadvantages and   
  
short ends of every deal. I just uncover it. I let them see it. What   
  
they do with it is there business."  
  
"I can't let you keep hurting people, Stan," Clark said, his voice   
  
taking the form of a plea. If only he would understand.  
  
"I'm not hurting anyone. I'm just bringing out the piece of them that   
  
is just like me." He laughed. "There's a little piece of me inside   
  
every sod in this world. They're only waiting for me to show them where   
  
it is."  
  
"What about Clark?" Pete called. "You haven't made him depressed." This was meant as   
  
a challenge but Clark felt a twinge of worry that it might make Stan realize that Clark   
  
wasn't like everyone else but Stan laughed again. "That's because he's depressed enough   
  
on his own. He doesn't need my help." Then, Stan took one last shallow breath and   
  
closed his eyes, leaving Clark and Pete there to stare at his body and wonder if his   
  
depression and inability to share it with Clark had killed him at last. 


	6. Epilogue

Stan Reloaded: Epilogue  
  
Clark and Pete were busy in the Torch's office after school, typing up one of their pieces on the football team. Clark was the reporter, Pete the eyewitness providing play-by-play accounts, and generally trying to make it seem like he had had a central role in the game, rather than keeping the bench nice and warm, when the door swung open. Clark looked up from Chloe's Imac as she bounded through the door, pausing only slightly when she saw that Clark was there. As she set a couple of files down on the desk next to him, she said casually, "So, does this mean you're back on the team?"  
  
Clark shrugged, trying to appear non-chalant. "I guess. I mean, it's either me or Stan, right? I'm sure you'd agree I'm a lot less depressing."  
  
Chloe raised her eyebrows. "Sure, Clark. I'll let you believe that." He opened his mouth to reply but Chloe cut him off. "Relax, I'm kidding. I'd rather have you, the weirdness that you are than Stan anyday. What happened to him anyway?"  
  
"Erm, I don't know. We left him out by his house when we heard the sirens coming. As far as we know, the police have dealt with him. Maybe he finally depressed himself to death."  
  
Chloe sighed. "Another schoolmate, dead and gone. I swear, guidance counselors are having a hay day here."  
  
"Hey, it keeps the parking lot free," Pete said, throwing a football at Chloe. "And that in the end is all that matters."  
  
"So, what did you guys actually do to him? I really wish you had let me come...it would have been an awesome scoop."  
  
Clark and Pete looked at each other. "We," Clark answered, "just proved to him that there are other ways to deal with life than be depressed about it."  
  
Chloe looked at both of them, not able to shake the feeling that there was something going on here she didn't know about.  
  
Stan shivered and sat up in the back of the pick up, holding a ratty blanket around him as he watched Smallville disappear from sight, the wind picking up on the interstate and blowing his hair into what, on anyone else, would be handsomely tuseled. On him it merely resembled a poorly thought out rat's nest. He didn't care about that though. Nor did he care about the fact that he had been jumped upon, left out in the dirt for the police while Clark and Pete ran away. Sure, he was bitter about it. Who wouldn't be? But that was that. Stan had gotten away as soon as he could and hitched a ride out of town. He was leaving this rat hole. If he had learned anything in that town, it was that he needed to be around more people to have more of an effect on them. 'Stan,' he thought grimly, 'is heading for the big times.'  
  
Author's Note: Well, that's it. I think this epilogue was originally going to have a bit more in it. Definitely tie things up a bit more, maybe in the shape of a ribbon. But nah. Too lazy. However, I'm thinking about doing a third part, called the Stan Revolutions (If you did not see that coming, I'm very disappointed in you.) It would involve Stan being inserted into certain 'memorable' scenes in the place of other actors, revolving, so to speak. Anyway, if you want it, lemme know. If not, maybe I'll tackle this Jonathan and Martha fic that's been running around in my head, refusing to go away. 


End file.
